The Used
by NothingNooneZero
Summary: She knew. She was a door mat: so easily walked over for anything and everything, especially to a certain Consulting Detective. She was done playing the mousy pathologist. She was done being used.
1. Chapter 1

The Used: A Sherlock Fanfiction

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC 'Sherlock' series, nor anything pertaining to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation. If I did, well…

" _You're a lovely girl, Molly Hooper," the man smiled at her in a sheepish manner, "and I was wondering if you'd like to catch a coffee with me sometime?"_

A lovely _girl._ Girl? Doctor Molly Hooper was _not_ a girl. She hadn't been a girl for the better part of fifteen years! She was a woman, a woman who deserved the kind of whirlwind romance that she'd read about in books; the kind of love that was eternal and beyond anything she could have hoped to imagine. Unfortunately, Molly Hooper was also a woman who very much doubted her worth, and although she desperately held onto hope, she knew she was destined to be nothing more than a crazy, old cat lady. Toby, her dearest friend, was the beginning of the end for her. Soon enough she'd end up buying him a friend, and then another and then another until her small apartment was filled to the brim with the sounds of purring and she died alone.

"I need to look at the body again, Molly." And in walked one of the reasons for her low self-esteem and rattled confidence. Unbeknownst to the self-proclaimed 'sociopath', Molly no longer yearned for his companionship. To be quite frank, she wouldn't have been able to bring herself to care if he dropped dead in front of her! Okay, so that wasn't _quite_ true. They had known each other for five years. Yes, count them: five. All in all, once Molly finally got over her infatuation (and it _was_ just an infatuation, or so she insists), she was able to see just how poisonous Sherlock Holmes was to her. With fake compliments, fake interest and fake politeness, Molly had become an expert at being able to figure out exactly when she was being used by another and right now was no different to the millions of other times. She rolled her eyes, an excuse on her tongue, when the consulting detective uttered some more false flattery.

"Oh, alright then Sherlock. But make it quick." She complied, despite seriously considering to tell him exactly where he could shove the cadaver, knowing that he'd hassle her until he got his way. That, and it was what was expected of her, too. Poor, little Molly Hooper: helplessly in love with a high functioning sociopath. It angered her that nobody paid enough attention; that nobody cared enough; that one of the smartest men alive was unable to see that Molly Hooper was no longer the mousy doormat she used to be. However, having said that, there was a slight satisfaction to it all. She didn't count, which was made obvious by everyone she interacted with, so at least she'd never be in any danger as a result of being acquainted to the consulting detective. In a way, she had outsmarted them all.

"We're only interested in the feet." She hurried to show him what he wanted and retreated. It was going to be a long day.

''

She was on her way to filing the death certificate of a patient downstairs when she was pushed over: the folder flying through the air, the burning of something on her torso and a weight upon her small form as she struggled to understand what just happened.

"I am _so_ sorry. Here, let me help you." The voice of the man was slightly high pitched and she was certain that she'd never seen him before. Once the papers were collected, and he'd given her his jacket to wear, the man apologised once more before introducing himself.

"Jim, Jim Moran, from the IT department on the third floor." He held a hand out and Molly hesitantly took it.

"Molly Hooper: Pathologist from the morgue." He smiled at her, all teeth and confidence.

"I truly am sorry about that. I didn't mean to get coffee on you, or trip you over. I've seen you around and I was coming over to talk to you." She didn't like this. There was something off about the man in front of her; something sinister. "I," he looked around, scratching at his head, "I wanted to ask if you were, well, if you were seeing anyone."

"Uh, well, no, I'm not."

"Brilliant. That's lovely. I mean, brilliant for me. Not for you. That would mean that I was hoping you were lonely. Alone. You know what, how about I buy you coffee?" She could just be paranoid as well, but the sinking feeling she got in her stomach and that warning bells going off in her head told her that she wasn't. She didn't listen, however, because she was curious, and why the hell not? She was a single woman and she could afford to go on a single date.

"Um, okay. That would be nice. Though you needn't do it. Your apology is enough."

"You think I'm asking you out because I ran into you and spilt coffee on you?" He asked. He laughed then. "No, no. I've been meaning to ask you out for a while now. Just thought that you were in a relationship. There's a lot of talk 'round the office about a tall man who frequently visits you in your lab."

"You mean Sherlock?" Something in the man's eyes changed. He looked to her and nodded.

"Must be if it's the first name you think of." He shrugged then. "So, what do you say? Would tomorrow morning suit you?" She nodded, continuing on with the small talk they had been making.

''

It had been a trying three weeks, with pretending to be interested in the little pathologist Sherlock constantly used, but James Moriarty was in Heaven as he walked from the lab. He had finally met the only consulting detective in the world, and, as the detective was so fond of saying, the game was on. He was absolutely tickled pink at the thought of what was to come. Life was finally starting to look up, if only for a bit. It would end with a bang and he'd not be bored in the least!

"That is it!" He whirled around almost immediately at the indignant shriek. "You!" James almost smiled. Mousey Molly found out about the little stunt he pulled in the lab, what, with the flirting and leaving his number for the man in the bellstaff coat.

"Whoa, hey Molls." He had his hands up in a gesture of surrender but was completely caught off guard when the little pathologist slammed him into the corridor wall. He looked from her face, to her hands and then back again. She had a grip on his shirt that showed no signs of loosening.

"Don't you 'hey Molls' me." She practically spat. "I don't know how clever you think you are, _Moran_ ," she said the last name mockingly, "but if you thought for even a second that you had pulled one over me, you are as stupid as the rest of us mere mortals." He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence and confusion, as well as concern. "You think I didn't catch onto what you were doing? You think I don't _know_ when I'm being _used_? The only office gossip around here concerning Sherlock Holmes and myself is about how tragic my apparent love for him is! You're all so self-absorbed, you genius lot. You easily look over those you think aren't worth your time and you don't bother properly reassessing them! Look where it's got you, though, Jim." She let him go, taking a step back, before pushing him into the wall again and making her way to the exit. "Have fun with Holmes, you twat!" There were tears now and she seemed to shrink into herself, making her seem as little as possible as people came to investigate all the noise. "I thought you were different! But you're just as in love with Sherlock as I am!" She started to cry, sobbing noisily as she went for the stairs and everyone just shook their heads, looking to Jim briefly, and then headed back to their work.

''

James Moriarty was a genius. In fact, there were a scarce few who could keep up with him, let alone genuinely surprise him. That little pathologist had just threatened him, put her hands on him, and then ran off in a manner which had everyone around her pitying her. The otherwise plain, ordinary and _boooooring_ woman had given him a lot to think about. He wondered if her precious _Sherly_ knew? Obviously not, he figured, given that the consulting detective continued to overlook her just as he had done.

"Where to Boss?" James shook his head, not having realised that he'd made his way outside and to his car. "You alright there, Boss?" Sebastian Moran, expert marksman and all 'round henchman, asked.

"I made a mistake." Sebastian tensed hearing those words. He rarely heard them and was dreading what was to come. "Mousy Molly." Was all he said, before staring into space.

"Mousy Molly?" James just smirked, a dark look encasing his features before he laughed aloud at his miscalculation.

''

"He's not gay, Sherlock." Molly Hooper, being the kind of person who truly did want to help, was currently trying to warn Sherlock of his deductions regarding Jim from IT. "He isn't. That was all an act! He just wanted your attention. There's something not right about him, but it isn't his false sexual orientation!" John looked at Molly, properly looked, and having done so, he could see the truth in her eyes, the determination, and the concern. Poor old Molly, she was trying her best to get over his flatmate but the world seemed to revolve around the arrogant arse.

"Did the two of you not see him?" He shook his head. "Of course you saw him. That's not the problem. You didn't _observe_ him though. He gave me his number. He is as gay as Mrs Hudson believes John is." John turned a shade or two of red, sputtering indignantly.

"I'm not gay!" Molly's lips formed a stern line as she left the lab in favour of going home and spending the evening with a bottle of wine.

''

It would be nearing Christmas when Molly Hooper was called upon, unexpectedly, by John Watson.

"You've known him for years," he began, "and I think a Christmas get together would do him some good." There was something in John's voice, a deep concern, that Molly tried her best to ignore. "So, will you come?" His eyes seemed to plead with her. She sighed. It was expected of her, wasn't it? It would be weird if she didn't; they'd _have_ to know that something was wrong, that something was different, with her.

"Oh, John, you know I'll be there." He smiled at her and pulled her in for a brief hug.

"See you Christmas Eve then." With that, the military veteran walked out of the morgue. Now Molly had to think like the infatuated twit she once was, because, Heaven forbid, Sherlock would be suspicious of her if she didn't buy something that screamed 'I love you' for him.

''

She was not all that impressed at the moment. The gift she'd bought for the younger Holmes had been deduced and, despite her not actually being in love with him anymore, the words had reduced her to tears. He had torn her down in front of work colleagues and humiliated her. Hell, he was still going, and not a single person was coming to her defence. She honestly couldn't believe it!

"With a face like yours, I am truly surprised that anyone would be remotely attracted to you, _Molly_. Is this one gay too? Trying to impress you into introductions next week perhaps?" The Detective practically sneered at her, standing tall above her as he shook the present for the umpteenth time. "So, who is he? Who's the unlucky lad that's been pestered into a relationship with you?" He stepped back, a horrible smirk on his face as he lifted the tag, turning it and freezing in his place.

"I don't know why I bother. I honestly don't." He immediately made to apologise.

"No," she said, with a hand up, "you aren't. It doesn't take a genius to know that everything you just said was the truth. Why else would the only consulting detective say such things?" She shook her head. The words were vile as they had spewed from his mouth and she was absolutely broken by them. She'd heard them all her life, from family and friends to strangers on the street, and now her insecurities came right back to slap her in the face and what was worse? A man who was far more intelligent than most of the planet combined, had just told her the exact same thing. "Merry Christmas." With that, she ran out the door and onto the street, a muffled sob escaping her as she made her way home.

" _Who could ever love the pathetic pathologist?"_

She could hear her father, her brother; the whispers of those she thought of as friends as she cuddled up to Toby and cried herself to sleep. She'd allow this moment of weakness, allow herself the time to come to terms with herself once again and then, well, she wasn't entirely sure.

''

It seemed like the universe truly did revolve around Sherlock Holmes. Here she was, two in the morning on her day off, assisting with an autopsy because _Sherlock_ was unable to work with anyone else. She scoffed at that. He just couldn't get access to body parts from anyone else.

"Miss Hooper." Ah, yes, how could she forget: she was currently in the presence of the eldest Holmes brother, not that he introduced himself as such. In fact, he didn't introduce himself at all. She could just tell. It could have been the mannerisms, the clear detachment from humanity, but overall it was the concern he displayed when he mentioned the consulting detective coming down to identify the body.

"The body is right this way Sir. The autopsy has been postponed, as requested." She said, pretending to be nervous by wringing her hands together. "How… how does Sherlock know this woman?" A stern glance was all she received.

"There you are, Sherlock." He then gestured to the body. "Is that her? Without a single doubt?" Sherlock stalked to the table, ignoring Molly's presence, as he lifted the sheet, eyes shifting over the woman's naked form.

"It's her." He whirled out the room, all heavy steps and an air of melancholy; of mourning. Molly just shook her head and waited for the older man to leave.

"You're not really her, are you? This is Jim again." Molly said, fixing the sheet back over the body. "The game never really stopped, did it?" She then sighed. "So much for being a genius. Can't see what's right in front of them. Stupid, the lot of them." She mumbled to herself, unaware that Mycroft Holmes was listening in. What, in the name of all that was scientific, did Molly Hooper know about James Moriarty and how did she see through The Woman's deception so easily? Mycroft thought up all he knew about the little pathologist but found he was sorely lacking information. Surely, she gave something away when he kidnapped her after Sherlock started to interact with her. He paused: no, no she didn't, because Mycroft never believed, not for a moment, that she could possibly be anything more than a mouse who was well 'in love' with his brother. He entered the morgue once again but found it empty.

"Miss Hooper?" He called aloud. There was no reply. Something was wrong about this situation.

''

Molly was severely unimpressed at the current time. She had many a thing to do: autopsies, reports… her _job_ , but apparently that was being taken care of at the moment because she just _had_ to be kidnapped by the British Government because of the youngest Holmes bother, sorry, _brother_ , once again.

"What is it that you know, Miss Hooper?"

"I haven't the foggiest, Mr. Holmes."

"Then can you supply me with an answer as to why a criminal mastermind would be asking for you as a means of negotiation?"

"I am not in the mood for any of this, okay? I wasn't the one who overlooked a part of the equation. You're the genius: why don't _you_ tell _me_." Mycroft stared long and hard at the small woman before him, unable to believe that she was the same one who pined after his brother.

"What happened to you Miss Hooper?" She stared right back at the man before her.

"I guess I gave up on fairy tales and opened my eyes to the world, Mr. Holmes."

"Indeed." He muttered to himself. What in the blazes was going on here?

''

"You've locked him up like an animal?"

"Believe me, Miss Hooper, it is much more than he deserves."

"Then why not kill him? Wouldn't that be better for everyone involved? Would save the tax payers some, wouldn't it?" Mycroft looked at her incredulously. This woman was possessed, it seemed. Surely, there had to have been a mistake. This just could not be the mousy woman he overlooked. "Tough crowd." She said under her breath. Her eyes widened when maniacal laughter echoed throughout the halls. Seems someone appreciated the joke after all.

"We're here, Miss Hooper. There will be a guard watching from the door. I will be behind the glass. If we see any reason to intervene: we will. You are safe, Miss Hooper. You've nothing to fear." She nodded and entered the odd, chamber-like room and sat down, after James Moriarty gestured for her to do so.

"Molly, love: seems you've grown to be quite the comedian. 'Save the tax payers'? Haha, that was a good one." His Irish lilt was more prominent than ever, shocking Molly slightly with its melodic tone.

"I don't think we're on a first name basis, Mr. Moriarty." She faked a smile before settling her lips into a thin line.

"Mr. Moriarty? Why, love, you can call me that whenever you feel the need to." He smirked at her, eyebrows raised suggestively. "Especially in the bedroom. I think it'll become a new favourite of mine."

"Am I here to discuss Sherlock Holmes with you this evening, Mr. Moriarty?" He shivered, exaggerating the movement and continuing to smirk. "Or, and this is just an uneducated guess: am I here to talk about your right-hand man, Mr. Moran?" His smirk dropped, but only to be replaced with a devilish grin.

"Oh ho hoooo, Miss Molly. To think: I used to call you Mousy Molly." She rolled her eyes at that, not in the least bit insulted. You'd think a criminal genius would come up with something better than that. The consulting detective managed to. "Oh no, but you're not Mousy Molly at all. You're Magnificent Molly, Manipulative Molly; Majesty Molly." He looked her up and down. "Baby, what I wouldn't do to see you in a crown." He paused, leering at the woman. " _Only_ a crown." He reiterated.

"Can we get to the point sometime soon? I've work to do and an empty flat to return to. You knew that, though, didn't you?" His eyes showed that he was calculating something, thinking through all the possibilities and then, when he found an ending that appealed to him, he smiled like the Cheshire Cat.

"Well I suppose I _did_ bring you here for a reason." He smirked at her again. "Don't you like my company?"

"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but: I'd rather be pining after Sherlock."

"Oh, and isn't that just a lovely, little ruse you've played up! I underestimated you in so many ways that I'll be spending the rest of my life making up for it."

"You make it sound as if you've now got a reason to live _after_ this little game of yours." His face showed genuine surprise at the offhand comment.

"What do you mean by that, Majesty Molly?" She pursed her lips and decided to ignore his question.

"What did you need me for James?" She asked out of exasperation. She was growing to be a little nervous by this time. All she wanted to do was go home, sit back and watch the telly with Toby. His eyes lit up at the sound of his name from her lips and he leant back in his chair. Despite the straight jacket that had him all sorts of restrained, he managed to look comfortable sitting across from her.

"Need?" He shook his head. "It started as a want, I suppose, but since that day in corridor? Molly, Molly, Molly what a mistake I had made." He let out a wistful sigh. "Sooooooooo," he sang, "what did you mean by 'after this little game'?"

"Okay, look: if you're not going to get to the point, then there isn't one and I'm leaving. I have no idea what light has been shed upon Sherlock during this meeting, but if you're quite done, I'm going." She made to stand, went to push her chair back and leave but found herself surprised and genuinely fearful when she realised Moriarty's hand was currently grabbing her arm. Her eyes widened as he pulled her across the table, stumbling backwards. Alarms had been sounded as the guards tried to get through the door.

"Now Molly, your Majesty," he breathed into her ear, "I want your help."

"You could have just asked." She whispered back, trying her best not to show fear. He tugged her closer, impossibly so, and just held her for a moment. His nose ghosted along her neck and Molly shivered, being unable to stop herself.

"Ah, Miss Molly," she could feel the smirk that she knew adorned his face, "I'll speak with you soon." The lights went out in the small room and he turned her around, pressing a kiss to her mouth.

Maniacal laughter echoed, Moriarty was rocking himself back and forth on the ground as the guards finally stormed the room. Mycroft, ever the gentlemen, escorted Molly out of the building.

"I apologise, Miss Hooper. I had been assured that Moriarty was properly restrained. If it helps ease your mind in any way: there _will_ be a thorough investigation as to how he was able to escape his restraints and those who are responsible will be punished." His face was grave. "I understand that my brother has done nothing but use you repeatedly, treated you like you were worth nothing, and I apologise for not stepping in and putting a stop to that. I understand that it is not my place, that Sherlock should be the one speaking the words, but I am sorry, Miss Hooper. I trust that whatever happens, whatever _he_ wants you for," he trailed off, eventually meeting the pathologists eye. "I sincerely hope that you are strong enough not to be played by Moriarty and that you won't, out of some need for vengeance, give him the answers he seeks."

"Mr. Holmes, I don't know what sort of a person you think I am, but I would never betray those I think of as friends." There was a conviction and determination that had Mycroft admiring the small woman before him. He nodded.

"Once again, I apologise for the happenings in that room and hope that it hasn't affected you negatively."

''

She couldn't believe just how much had happened in the short span of time since she had been placed before James Moriarty. She was currently seated in the backseat of a sleek, black car. With the absence of the elder Holmes brother, she realised a little too late that she probably shouldn't have just gotten into a random car that had slowed down beside her.

"Have you figured out who I am yet or who I work for?" The man was oddly handsome in a rugged sort of way and reminded her of a taller, slightly younger John Watson. His voice was as rough as his appearance and Molly didn't have to wonder too long about the mysterious man.

"Moran?" She questioned. He smirked at her through the rear-view mirror.

"Got it in one Missus. Sebastian Moran, if you wanted to know the formal title." He chuckled at himself. "Jim wanted some answers. You're a pathologist; you know your way around a body," he snickered, "or so I'm told. Wouldn't mind a demonstration but I'm afraid it'd get me fired."

"What does he want?"

"A helping hand. You and your fiery personality have muddled up boss' plans. You see, you were right: he wasn't going to make it out of this alive. Okay, he didn't _want_ to. All part of a bigger and better plan that would see Sherlock losing to a dead man." Sebastian Moran was weird, Molly concluded.

"He's your boss: you were just going to let him kill himself?" She asked, hardly believing that.

"I wasn't gonna _let_ him do anything. Boss is a genius. He knows what needs to be done and he'll do it. Would one up that Sherlock fellow from beyond the grave, that was the plan. Then you slammed him into a wall and threatened him. Plans changed." He shrugged.

"What help am I going to be?"

"Should he jump as well, or should he stick with shooting himself in the head? How much damage would a blank inflict on a person? At point-blank range? How much blood would be expected? How could he feign a death like state that would have his pulse non-existent?" The questions were rapid fire and Molly just gaped at the man driving.

"You want me to stage the death of a criminal mastermind? Enough so, to trick a genius detective into believing it too? Is he insane?" Sebastian just smirked at her as he slowed down.

"I'm to wait here for you. Once you're done, I'll take you home." He got out of the vehicle and opened her door, offering his hand as she stood. "Have fun little Molly."

''

James bowed as she walked in, opening the door for her and asking after her coat.

"You're completely and utterly insane, you know that right?" James shrugged in a 'what can you do about it' sort of way. "Why on Earth would I want to help you?"

"'Why on Earth wouldn't you?' is the real question, Majesty." He gestured for her to follow him, and she did. There wasn't any point in refusing to. "Tea?" He asked, producing a kettle from the well-stocked cupboards.

"I sort of imagined you as more of a dark, abandoned warehouse kind of guy."

"You should know, just by looking at me, that I've got class, Molly. Only the finest things in life for me." He grinned. "And look: the finest thing is sitting right in front of me."

"Sebastian told me of your plan to die, James."

"First name basis all around, I see. Why did you immediately call Seb by his first name? Why not me?" He pouted. His act may have been playful but there was a flash of something akin to possessive and jealous that was gone in the blink of an eye.

"A ball under the arm will cease your heartbeat. Sherlock will not be able to find a pulse. You'll need a decent amount of blood as head wounds tend to bleed quite a lot. A blank can't be used: there's too much of a risk to you. You'll need to stimulate a 'gun shot'. Echoes of the gun sounding will need to be researched, the amount of gun powder that is produced by a single shot, as well as the effects of your person getting in the way and disrupting the natural patterns of the smoke. How do you think you'll pass this off?" She ended, questioning him out of the blue, seemingly.

"I'm James Moriarty, love: there's hardly a thing I can't do."

"One of those things being human? Empathic? Decent?" He made a face.

"Ouch, Molly. That hurt." He placed his tea cup in its saucer and stood, stalking around the coffee table that separated himself and Molly. He kneeled down beside her, stroking her leg, looking up at her with an almost believable fondness. "I am all those things, don't you see?" He laid his head upon her leg, placing a kiss near her knee while lazily tracing the skin. He breathed in deeply. "Molly, Molly, Molly…" He trailed off, and despite the suspicion Molly felt, she remained there with him, allowing him to continue his ministrations. She, and she was berating herself as she thought it, was feeling oddly content with the self-proclaimed Criminal Mastermind on his knees beside her. _Oh dear_ she thought to herself. That wasn't good.

''

 **Authors Note:** I think Molly Hooper needed to be a bit less, I don't know, _Molly Hooper_ -ish. Plus, I adore the thought of someone like Molly getting under James Moriarty's skin in all sorts of ways. I, in all honesty, did not like Sherlock's treatment of her in the series though. She was depicted as being rather weak and obsessive as far as Sherlock was concerned (and yes, I know she 'loves' him but still!). Hope you enjoyed.


	2. Chapter 2

The Used: A Sherlock Fanfiction

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC 'Sherlock' series, nor anything pertaining to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation. If I did, well…

"Molly? You with me?" Molly blinked, trying her best to remember what the Detective Inspector had been saying but was coming up blank. The man looked at her with concern. "Molly, you didn't hear a word that I was saying, did you?"

"I'm sorry, Greg." She offered half-heartedly. He placed a hand on her shoulder, properly gaining her attention, and began to speak again.

"Look, we're worried about you Molly. You haven't been yourself lately, not since that top secret incident you were involved in. Whatever happened to you, I need to know right now, are you okay?"

"There's nothing wrong with me; I'm perfectly fine." She shook her head, trying her best to clamp down on the anger she could feel bubbling up. "Now, I've got a million and one cases I need to attend to down here, at the morgue, and if I don't get a move on-" Greg Lestrade held a hand up.

"I know. I get it." He walked to the door, pausing halfway out. "Just, please, look after yourself Molly." She rubbed at her forehead the moment the door had closed.

"Fucking idiot." She muttered.

"You know," one of the many doors of the fridge opened up as the gurney was pushed out, "for a moment there, I was worried I'd have to end the inspector." James made his way to the pathologist, spinning her around to face him and leaning in to capture her lips. This had become a strange sort of routine lately: James would show up at random intervals as Molly went about her day. It had been nearly three weeks since Christmas had passed and the Consulting Criminal decided that she was made for him, much to her initial displeasure.

"You, Sir, are a liar." On the other hand, these meetings with Moriarty were a highlight. As much as she was pained to admit: she had started to care for the insane Irishman.

"Oh, darling, you know I love it when you speak to me like that." His cheeky grin served only to further the headache she was currently sporting. "Go on: tell me more. Am I so horrible?" he placed a kiss to her lips again. "Am I incorrigible?" He asked, his lips moving down her neck. He paused, kneeling in front of her. "Am I, oh, I don't know: _wicked_?" It was a husky whisper that, coupled with the hands caressing her legs and making their way upwards, sent a shiver down her spine. Before he could actually go ahead with showing her exactly how wicked he could be, she bent over, her hair shielding the Irish madman and herself from view, placing a gentle kiss to his own lips.

"If I don't get those reports done within the next fifteen minutes, they'll send that arsehole down here to deduce what's wrong with me."

"And?" He was much too used to getting his own way, she found.

"And I might just decide to indulge in a work-related fantasy to spite you." He laughed aloud.

"To spite me? You wouldn't want the Consultant's hands on you even if you _did_ want to spite me. Besides, love, we both know the star of your office fantasies." He winked at her, standing up and whistling as he walked to the door. "Sebastian will be here, as always. Make sure to punch old Sherlock for me on your way out, love. Promises that there'll be a delightful reward for you if you do." He sang as he made himself scarce. She shook her head, opened her desk drawer and took a Panadol for the throbbing in her head. This day was only going to get worse and she knew it. Any day beginning with Detective Inspector Lestrade meant a day that she'd have to put up with the Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.

''

"Molly's already filed the completed report, Sherlock. Why can't you just read it instead of bothering the poor woman?! She doesn't _want_ to see you, she doesn't _want_ to hear you and she certainly doesn't _want_ you here, in her work space." The man let out an exasperated sigh, once again, as his flatmate blatantly ignored him and barged on through the doors of the morgue. John raced to catch up with him, already spewing out apologies for the younger man's behaviour.

"I'm so sorry Molly! I tried to stop him, I did, but you know how… he-" John trailed off, immediately pushing the Detective out of the way as he, too, kneeled down beside the unconscious body of one Miss Molly Hooper. "What the hell?" John elevated her head, gently patting her cheeks, trying to garner a response of any kind. "Molly? Molly Hooper, I need you to open your eyes, okay?" He didn't get so much as a groan from the woman. He supported her back, using her desk, and opened an eye, doing the routine checks he had been performing for most of his life.

"They're sending a medical team down here. What's her current heart rate?" Sherlock asked, staring intently at the woman who had begun to breath just a little slower. Without waiting for an answer, the younger Holmes was up. He went straight to the top drawer of her desk, pulling out the Panadol he was certain Molly had taken and opened the bottle top. His eyes widened in alarm. "John: induce vomiting." The Doctor turned his head to ask why but the Detective snapped at him. "Now, John!" Evidently the Doctor wasn't doing a good enough job and wasn't fast enough for the Holmes' standards.

"Molly?" Sherlock kept up a façade of remaining calm as the pathologist convulsed, eyes opening and rolling into the back of her head as her back arched and her body seized. "Molly! Molly, this isn't funny." The woman stopped convulsing, much to both men's amazement. However, her body went completely limp.

''

"Who'd want to kill Molly Hooper?" John questioned. He couldn't understand why anyone would want to and, for life of him, couldn't understand _how_ anyone could actually go ahead and try to take the life of the sweet, innocent and all around beautiful Doctor Molly Hooper. Sherlock was unimpressed as well. He had initially thought the whole thing had been a set up of sorts to try and get him to apologise, but once the pathologist started to convulse, well, he was certain that it was attempted murder and not some macabre prank.

"She wasn't the primary target." John looked to the Consulting Detective.

"Come again? They nearly succeeded in killing her: of course she's the main bloody target, Sherlock."

"It's a message. They intended to do harm to someone else through her. It's as you said: who'd want to kill Molly Hooper? Who'd have any reason to want to harm her? Nobody, John. I'm certain Molly hasn't made an enemy during her entire life." Before John could question him, Sherlock continued on. "Molly, in this situation, would have been the one to do the poisoning; she's the one with the reasons to hate, but she doesn't, well, she didn't." There was actual regret in his voice for once. He had been unaware of Miss Hooper's past, having deduced that there was nothing remotely interesting about the mousy pathologist who worked at Saint Bart's. His words, although harsh, should not have prompted Molly to react the way she did, so he researched. He didn't like what he'd found. Apparently, he knew just the right words to absolutely tear the heart out of the woman. He paused a moment. "Tear the heart out." He said aloud.

"'Tear the heart out'? What are you going on about, Sherlock?"

"Moriarty." John paled.

"You can't be serious. Why? Why would he even bother with Molly? She's noth-" Sherlock cut him off.

"He poisoned her John; he wants her dead. She must have seen something, heard something; _noticed_ something when he was playing gay for three weeks." His eyes narrowed as he briefly replayed walking into her office and finding her. He remembered the slight lingering of a cologne. It had to have been _him_.

"No, no way. Even you bought his 'gay' act."

"Molly didn't." Sherlock replied instantly. "Think, John. _Think_! She tried to warn me, remember?" John's eyes widened.

"I thought she was just angry about it all. Do you really think she saw him for what he was?" Sherlock just looked to the comatose body on the bed.

"She saw through many things, John." John looked at the woman before nodding to Sherlock and leaving the room. "You saw through me." He whispered, letting go of the pathologists' hand. This was his fault, he knew it. "I may have hurt you, Molly Hooper, but I _will_ make it up to you." He leant down, placing a chaste kiss upon her forehead. "Let's go."

''

"How come it's never come up before?" Greg Lestrade asked. "The lab did a background check, they always do, on their new employees. When Molly started, she'd have been screened. Simple as that. She wouldn't have gotten the job otherwise."

"Yes, well, it seems as if Miss Hooper's been keeping things rather close to the chest, I'd imagine. With her upbringing, though, its hardly surprising." Mycroft answered. "Now, why on earth am I here, Sherlock? What made you think it would be a wonderful idea to invite me over to your little party?" Sherlock sneered at his older brother.

"You would have known about this, Mycroft. Don't pretend."

"Don't be daft, _Sherly_."

"What? You're telling me you didn't find out every little thing imaginable the moment I stepped foot into her office?"

"Why would I? I still don't understand why you're bothering with this 'investigation'. She was never important, not in the slightest. Just leave it to rest." He ignored the glares that were sent his way and continued on. "It was, simply, unfortunate." He stood, umbrella in hand. "Now leave it be, Sherlock. She was nothing to you but a supply of cadavers. She doesn't matter; she never will." Mycroft simply strode out the door, his umbrella in hand, and left the three men to their own devices. He was not impressed at the moment. He was the British Government and he had let that mousy woman slip past him so easily. He was angry at himself for not having seen the abuse in her eyes, nor noticing the sheen left behind from a decade-old burn on the palm of her right hand. He would monitor his brother, as always. Nothing good could come from this, though. He was certain of that.

''

"I honestly don't know which one of you is worse." John said, shaking his head in a mixture of anger and disbelief. "The two of you are horrible"

"Yes, John, we're already aware of that. Our social skills are lacking and we don't rightly care for sentiment. Now, can we concentrate on the case?" Greg sent John a look to which the army doctor shrugged. "What do we know?"

"Molly was poisoned." John began. "They spiked her Panadol tablets."

"How could anyone have known that she'd need to take them?" Greg asked. He was still confused as to why Molly Hooper had become a target after five years without incident, in regards to Sherlock Holmes' enemies. John looked to Sherlock, also curious.

"She's been through quite the ordeal lately." The men both gave the Consulting Detective a look. He sneered at them, almost daring them to bring up Christmas Eve. "Adding to that, her brother has been calling her every three days or so, meaning Molly would be emotionally exhausted from dealing with family. There is also the fact that the Christmas and New Year season has added a considerable amount of new bodies for her to process. Work load's always bigger during this time of year for her."

"So, she's been stressed since you called her those awful words then?" Greg summarised. Sherlock nodded. "But still, knowing that she'd eventually take a Panadol is a bit of an extreme jump, isn't it?"

"Putting a bomb on a child is extreme, so this truly shouldn't phase you."

"What? Bomb on a kid? Wait, are you talking about the man who killed the boy at the pools?"

"Yes, Lestrade, we are."

"You think he's the one who tried to kill Molly?"

"I don't think, Graham, I know."

"It's Greg."

"It's ridiculous." Sherlock waved him off as he continued to look around Molly's work station. He spun around, startling the two men. "What is it John?" Sherlock demanded. The older man just sighed.

"Look, we've been here for hours. You haven't found anything new. There's no sign of anyone coming down here, no odd visitors on the visitors log, the CCTV footage has given us diddly squat and I don't think there's much we can do here." Sherlock stopped for a moment then nodded.

"You're right." John and Greg didn't even hide their surprise. "To Molly's it is."

"Wait, what? We're breaking into her flat, Sherlock! Give her some sort of privacy!" He then turned to Greg. "We're not going to break in, okay?"

"Lestrade, you're letting us in." Sherlock told him.

"Wait a minute, Sherlock. We haven't even got the test results back confirming that it was poison. For all we know: she could have had an allergic reaction to something in the pill. I can't let you in. I'd need a warrant or something more substantial to classify as probable cause." The Detective rolled his eyes.

"You've had less and done more, Lestrade." His piercing gaze was now on the Detective Inspector. "Why are you hesitant about solving this?" Greg looked at him like he was crazy. "Don't you want to help Molly and catch the disgusting arachnid that's responsible for almost murdering her?" Greg looked at him but soon gave in.

"When she wakes, don't let her know of my involvement, alright? We're all already on thin ice with her and, quite frankly, I'd rather not be." Sherlock ignored the man and was already out the door.

"He wasn't implying that you don't care about what happens to Molly, yeah? He's feeling guilty about, well, everything he's ever said and done to her over the years." Greg nodded.

"So he should." Though the man felt guilty himself. He never once spoke up for Molly while she was humiliated by the younger Holmes' brother. "Best get to it. Try not to make a mess, yeah?" John nodded.

''

Molly was feeling nauseous and in pain. It felt like she was breathing in fire and her head was hurting something shocking. The past five hours had been excruciatingly slow and she was over this whole ordeal. She almost kissed the man who walked through her door.

"Don't worry: you're free to come along with us now." She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sebastian?" She looked up at the tall man.

"Yes, Miss Molly?"

"I love you. Thank you." He chuckled.

"Best not say things like that, Miss Molly. Jim will get right jealous over words like that. 'Specially if it ain't him they're aimed at."

"How is he?" She asked, talking quietly as they walked through the fire exit.

"In a right mood, he is. Not to worry, though. He'll see you and forget about his troubles." Molly yawned at that moment. Sebastian watched as her eyes fluttered closed. "Rest up, Miss Molly."

"Mh-hmm." She sounded out in agreement. Sebastian Moran shook his head and smiled at the woman fondly. She was a kind soul, there was no denying, but she had a streak as wicked as the infamous Moriarty. Speaking of, he hoped the Consulting Criminal had finished up with their latest group of suspects. It wouldn't do well to have Molly wake up because of someone's careless screams of agony.

''

 **Authors Note:** Hey, hey, hey! So, here's the second Chapter. Mostly edited, but I'm going to assume that I've missed some things. Anyway, hopefully you enjoyed reading this because I certainly enjoyed writing it. I'll update relatively soon. Thank you!


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